


dolce

by nasaplates



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Blood, Blood and Gore, F/F, Graphic Injury, HAVING A TIME TAGGING THIS, Referenced cannibalism, and it's actually a little bit more fucked up really, basically everything in hannibal, crime scene descriptions, fucked up sex, only they're girls, really gross descriptions of injury death and gore, the sex isn't really that fucked up actually but the context sure is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29273070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasaplates/pseuds/nasaplates
Summary: If there’s one thing everyone who knew Wen Junhui could agree on it was this: she threw a mean dinner party.
Relationships: Lee Seokmin | DK/Wen Jun Hui | Jun
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: DK's Birthday Bash!





	dolce

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS. I MEAN IT. if you're still here afterwards but a little leery, check the end notes for a final (semi-spoilery) warning.
> 
> sorry for any cannibalism related jokes you spot. they're pretty much required, for this au

If there’s one thing everyone who knew Wen Junhui could agree on it was this: she threw a mean dinner party.

Elegantly dressed and poised like a dancer, she gave off a perpetual air of being in on a joke and eagerly awaiting the moment when the penny would drop and she could share her bright and bubbling laughter with her guests.

Seokmin, as a rule, is a rumpled mess of a woman who doubles the recommended dosage of her prescription strength migraine meds on her good days, misses most jokes and smiles anyway, and never knows what to do with the warmth of Junhui’s gaze. She can read people like books but only when she looks at them at a slant, at the remnants they leave behind in rooms, on crime scenes, in the violence they wreck on flesh and bone.

In summary: Seokmin isn’t invited to many parties, dinner or otherwise, and she actually shows up to even fewer than that. And when she does she tends to spend more time with the pets than the people.

“Thank you, Seungkwan. This one certainly put up a fight when I butchered it, didn’t it Seokmin, dear?”

Seokmin looks up from her contemplation of the pool of blood beneath the cut of meat on her plate. Another creation of Jun’s, one that Seokmin knows she’s got no hope of pronouncing properly. French, maybe. Although Italian is always a possibility.

“Hm?” she hums, gaze drawn upwards by her name in Junhui’s mouth. She’s looking across the table at her, the spread between them colorful and magnificent. Mingyu has always said that Junhui should become a chef, and Seokmin can see why; color and texture, balance and fragrance and warmth. Hard to imagine the effort that goes into something like this. The blood sweat and tears. 

Junhui’s got her chin propped on a fist, smiling at Seokmin with a private sort of fondness. It should look messy and impolite, her elbow on the table, the paisley suit coat knocked from it’s broad shouldered frame by the pose, her necklace no longer perfectly resting above her ample chest. It looks effortless, instead. Like a predator is effortless, some big savannah cat lounging among the gazelle.

Seokmin looks back down at her plate. The blood is soaking into the potatoes, a slow creeping seep of red.

“Right.”

***

Seokmin clears the table once the evening has transitioned from food to conversation. Junhui always tells her not to, “That’s for after the guests have gone, Seokminnie,” with a gentle tone and a hidden gleam in her eye. No one else would understand if Seokmin told them Jun makes her feel like a specimen under a microscope. They really wouldn’t understand if she told them she enjoys being seen.

Seungcheol laughs from the room Junhui affectionately calls the billiard room, although Seokmin doubts it's housed a billiard table in decades, if ever. Seokmin dips a plate in soapy water and imagines her boss at the FBI smiling in that warm and happy way he never does in his office, gristle and gore splayed on it like a macabre buffet.

Soonyoung and her forensic team are here, too, Wonwoo and Seungkwan trading bickering asides, mostly about statistics, sometimes about bugs. She caught Seokmin’s eye once, during dinner, rolling her eyes fondly at the other two, who she calls her ‘boys’ like a girlfriend, or a lion tamer. Even Minghao came, her pants crisply pressed and her shoes earning Junhui’s praise and Junhui’s hands clasping hers with an intimacy that Seokmin couldn’t quite parse. It’s usually like that for her, when she isn’t sure whether she likes something or not. When the patterns twist because of the viewer, and not because of the viewed. Minghao had glanced at Seokmin, Junhui’s hands still toying with her fingers, and Seokmin had watched the pretty pink flush that blossomed on her cheeks.

They’re all Seokmin’s friends tonight, such as Seokmin has friends. They’re people Seokmin smiles at in the hall, anyway, even if she’s having the kind of day that makes eye contact impossible. Smiling at chins, and cheeks, and noses. She knows them by their freckles and moles, the shapes of their ears, as much as she does by their eyes.

They’re gentle with her, even Seungkwan, for whom ‘gentle’ mostly means scowling a little less harshly than usual, catching her by the biceps when she staggers at a crime scene when he’d let most people hit the dirt and complain about them fucking up the evidence. 

Wonwoo gave her his gloves, once. Seokmin isn’t sure why she remembers it so vividly. It was bitterly cold that morning, the body laid out on a massive pair of antlers like it was an offering upon the altar of some ancient god. She had said as much, because that was her job, to see the why’s in the what’s. To take the design laid before them all and parse it down to the heart of its creator. To become them, stepping into the evening gown they made of their delicate rage and model it on a runway covered in blood.

Wonwoo had looked at her with kindness, and worry. Seokmin never did return the gloves.

“I knew I’d find you here.” There’s a warmth to Junhui’s voice when she says it. Almost a purr. Seokmin’s hand, just submerged into the soapy water, clenches involuntarily over the blade of a steak knife. She doesn’t have to look to know that the wine glass Junhui sets down with a dainty clink is dripping red to match the swirling stain of color only just rising to the surface of the water.

Heels tap on tile and Seokmin shivers without meaning to. She knows Junhui notices. Fine hairs rising at the nape of Seokmin’s neck like a flag, and Junhui’s senses have always been more keen than most. It wouldn’t surprise Seokmin if she could smell her blood by now, near as she is. If she could smell darker things, too.

Warm hands dip at her waist and rise upwards to her shoulders, pass down her arms and slip into the water like a diver, without a splash, with only the faintest wetness of sound. Junhui’s breasts scorch her back and her hip burns where Junhui’s core presses against the swell of her ass. Her knee slides between Seokmin’s thighs and all of her presses, inexorable, so slowly that Seokmin doesn’t feel pinned until the shocking cool of the sink strikes at her belly.

Junhui’s fingers find the wound on Seokmin’s hand like she’d put it there herself. Instead of gasping, instead of crying out at the sharp, sick pain of parted flesh being touched, Seokmin moans.

Hot against Seokmin’s ear, Junhui sighs.

“Oh my Patroclus,” she tsks, “You really should know better than to be so careless with knives.”

It’s like a dream, watching Junhui pull Seokmin’s bloody and mangled hand free of the water, the slow motion parting of liquid before their bodies, the pink drip of it echoing somehow louder than the breath and the heartbeats that they’re sharing, now, two people in one body. Or maybe it’s just Junhui in two bodies. Maybe Seokmin is floating above the tepid water, watching them from the vantage point of her blood escaping. Watching Junhui’s mouth red and lush at Seokmin’s neck. Watching as she turns the tap and rinses Seokmin’s flesh. Watching as Junhui begins to roll herself against Seokmin, sensuous and fluid. Seokmin’s eyelashes flicker, catching on her glasses, and her mouth parts with a slickness matched by the slow and even flow of water across her fingers, running red, then pink, then clear.

Junhui squeezes her hand at the same moment that she takes Seokmin’s ear lobe between her teeth and Seokmin is slammed back into her body, and she keens with the impact. She’s soaked her panties through already, helpless and open, a wanting thing. Pink and dripping with it.

“Please,” she gasps, knowing herself to be a rabbit in a trap, a mouse between the paws of a cat that has not forgotten it’s mother was a tiger.

“You have to tell me,” Junhui says, her voice conversational and amused. Like she’s not fucking Seokmin in her kitchen while her friends are laughing in the next room. “Speak your desires, pet. They cannot own you if you claim them first.” She rolls her hips hard, pressing her thigh between Seokmin’s cheeks and Seokmin wants so badly to bend for her. To be split open by her, pulled asunder. Carved into some new shape by her hands. Impaled and put on display.

Seokmin turns her head until their noses brush and tries to make her voice even, to match. “Your mouth,” and she fails, she fails so much, she is panting and wanton. She might as well be naked and spread, writhing and holding herself open on the floor. A concubine, begging before her king.

Hips thoughtlessly humping steel she cracks her ribs open and hands the soft and beating, hard and needy core of her to Junhui on a plate, and says, “Please. I need you to,” and only here does she stutter, rocking with the shuddering force of Junhui’s fingertips dipping in the untouched meat of her split open palm, “C-consume me.”

It is another dream, Junhui smiling at her benevolent and shining, Junhui turning her gently, Junhui kissing her mouth like a motherly goddess to her accolate. She looks down from the coffered ceiling and bears witness to Junhui slipping her free of her belt, and unveiling her to the cold light of her kitchen. She looks at her mound, messy with lack of care, and pets it like a wild thing she has tamed. Seokmin watches herself tip her head back and moan as Junhui slides gracefully to her knees.

The sink is cold on the flesh of Seokmin’s ass, and she’s smearing blood on its pristine surface, when her body is her own again. Junhui’s hands are wide and bruising on her thighs as she spreads them, wider, wider still. Amusement on her lips, Junhui parts her folds and licks her like she is cream on a spoon. A tasting, first, as though considering the balance of flavor upon the palate, rolling Seokmin’s slick to catalogue its essence in every part of her mouth. She closes her eyes. She swallows. Humming, satisfied, she dips herself back into Seokmin’s body and drinks.

It’s like drowning, Junhui’s tongue on her, in her, Junhui’s fingers on her skin. She strokes a place where her thigh meets her core and it’s like being gutted, the way it rips through her. Seokmin lets her jaw fall open and thinks of nothing so much as a fish, screaming as it is being cleaned, the meat of it separated from all that is vital. Seokmin feels like a carcass must, not yet dead, free of weight it never noticed until it was gone. An amputee of life, before the blankness of death has come to make nothing of her. Pulsing and pulsing with whatever Junhui has left her with. The will to live, maybe. The will to be made something of, more like.

Junhui fucks two fingers in her at once, the stretch enough to fold Seokmin in half, like a stabbing victim. Junhui’s chin is wet, her mouth folded into the smugness of pulling Seokmin out of her mind. Her lipstick is smudged at the corner of her lips, so slightly no one but Seokmin would ever notice. Seokmin puts her thumb there, panting in rhythm to the way Junhui uses her.  _ I was here, _ Seokmin wants to say. And then Junhui crooks her fingers, buries her face back into Seokmin’s devouring heat, and sucks.

Seokmin doesn’t scream, when she comes. She used to wonder about murder victims, pulled into dark alleys, stabbed over and over and over and never once screaming. She hasn’t since she met Junhui. Since Junhui first took her, and made Seokmin truly understand the phrase. ‘Took,’ like a claim. Like a theft. ‘Took,’ like an acceptance.

There would be no point, in screaming. Screaming is pointless, when there is no hope of being saved.

***

Her friends don’t notice, in the end. Not the smudge at Junhui’s mouth, not the way Seokmin’s shirt has clearly been re-tucked by more discerning hands than her own.

They don't notice the door hidden in the shelves of Junhui's ample pantry, either, though Seokmin can hardly blame them for that.

Minghao presses a kiss to Seokmin's cheek when she leaves, touches gentle fingers to Seokmin's carefully bandaged palm. Minghao hesitates, and she looks at her, really looks, and for a moment Seokmin thinks she's seen something. A lingering redness at Seokmin's mouth. The smell of sex on her, left over from Junhui's last claiming pussy-wet kiss. The guilt that will linger long after Seokmin's bones are boiled and bleached, wired and tenderly displayed.

If she does, Minghao never says. She simply cups Seokmin's cheek in her soft palm and says, "Take care of yourself," like she's saying 'I love you.' Seokmin doesn't close the door behind her until Minghao's shoes are no longer audible, kissing the pavement as she goes.

Junhui is humming in the kitchen. Something soothing plays on the speakers, blending easily with Junhui's sweet and cheerful voice and the smooth competence of her knife on the counter as she cuts.

Seokmin goes to the pantry, to the door. Junhui's voice rises for a moment, falls. A laugh in sound. The bat of a paw, the barest hint of claw. Seokmin tips a can of kidney beans, and the door opens inward on silent hinges. 

Lights glow, one by one, in response to Seokmin's descent down the stairs, warm and friendly, as though in apology for the deepening cold. Seokmin's foot touches the cement floor, lightly sloped toward the unobtrusive drain in the center, and the final bank of lights pull the room out of the dark.

There is a series of refrigerators along one wall, a work bench on another. Pegboard houses an array of knives and saws and drills, hanging neatly, points gleaming and well oiled.

In the middle of the room, there is a table, stainless steel sparkling. A plate rests on it, perfectly centered and topped with a clear glass dome. A severed head looks out, eyes frosted with death, skin pale and blueish. The hair is perfectly coiffed, the oil shining, and the mouth gives the appearance of a smirk, tending toward ugliness.

_ So it was Italian, after all. _ In her mind, blood seeps across a plate to soak into buttery white.

The lights turn off on their own as Seokmin makes her way steadily upward, following the sounds in the kitchen above her. She watches herself from the top of the stairs. The darkness growing behind her. The bruises beneath her eyes. Her feet, light where they step, buoyed by the lilting sound of Junhui’s smile that slides, serpentine and tender, around her chest.

She closes the door behind her, silent as the grave.

In the kitchen, Junhui laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> cw: it is HEAVILY implied that seokmin knows jun is a cannibal and a murderer and still a) eats dinner b) has sex with jun. if that's a no for you, I completely understand <3
> 
> I genuinely don't know what possessed me here, but, uh. happy dkday?


End file.
